


The Office: An American Band Place

by lucifucker



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., The Office - Fandom
Genre: M/M, The Office AU, cute fluffy nonsense, its trash but its my trash, patrick and joe centric, see if you can figure out which guys are which characters!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe’s job is to speak to clients on the phone about quantities and type of copier paper, whether they can supply it to them, whether they can pay for it, and honestly, he’s getting bored just thinking about it.</p><p> </p><p>or</p><p>the Office au that nobody except bel asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Office: An American Band Place

“Troh. Trohman. Trohseph. Trohmeo. Trohmageddon. Tr—“

 

“Hey, Pete.”

 

Pete has his butt firmly planted on Joe’s desk, which is for sure not where Pete’s butt is supposed to be (at his own desk, signing off on expense reports) but there it is, right on Joe’s desk, right in front of his face, and Joe would love to push him off, but Pete’s his boss, so he can’t do that.

 

“How’s it going?” Pete huffs out a breath and pouts his lower lip a little, and Joe leans back in his seat.

 

“I hate expense reports.”

 

“I think we all do, man.”

 

“I really hate expense reports.”

 

“Maybe,” Patrick calls from behind reception, with the phone cradled against his ear, “If you just sat down and did your work every day instead of leaving all of them to the deadline, this wouldn’t be a problem.” Joe grins, and Patrick grins back, and Pete pouts, more.

 

“I hate expense reports.” He says again, and Joe sighs.

 

“Me, too, buddy.”

 

—

 

Joe does not have a favorite part of working at Dunder Mifflin. Working at Dunder Mifflin is not a part of Joe’s life that he would classify as positive enough for him to have a favorite part.

 

Joe’s job is to speak to clients on the phone about quantities and type of copier paper, whether they can supply it to them, whether they can pay for it, and honestly, he’s getting bored just thinking about it.

 

His boss, Pete Wentz, is an idiot, except when he’s not, and maybe in small doses that would be endearing, but for the most part it just makes Joe wish he didn’t work for a paper company, and also, that his best friend wasn’t the boss of said paper company, because, really? Being best friends with your boss? Kinda lame.

 

Joe’s favorite part of his job is not Patrick Stump, and his smile, and the way he says “Dunder Mifflin, this is Patrick” and the way he hid his giggles behind the sleeve of his cardigan when Joe put Gabe’s stapler in Jell-o last week.

 

Absolutely not.

 

—

 

“So.” There are fifteen jellybeans left in Patrick’s candy dish and literally all of them are pink, and as Joe leans his elbows on the desk, he can see little bumps under Patrick’s copy of Pete’s last memo. “I think there’s a candy thief in the office.” Patrick raises his eyebrows, and grins.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Well, y’know, that’s a serious problem.”

 

“It is.” Joe nods, and looks around before leaning forward conspiratorially. “I suspect Brendon.”

 

“Aah.” Patrick nods, and looks over to where Brendon's currently staring exhaustedly at his computer with a mouthful of M&M’s. “Seems like a feasible explanation. One problem, though.”

 

“Oh?” Joe raises his eyebrows, and Patrick bites his lip, and pulls back the memo to reveal a myriad of different colors of jellybeans. “Aaah, an inside job. I see how it is.” He reaches down, and plucks up one of the red ones, popping it into his mouth. “You’re on your way to a life of crime, Stump.”

 

Patrick ducks his head and laughs, and looks up at Joe with a twinkle in his eyes.

 

“You’re going down with me, Trohman.”

 

Joe’s kinda okay with that.

 

—

 

Joe glued all of Gabe's stuff to his desk.

 

In all fairness, he did also leave the remover for the glue on the desk, unglued, and in even more fairness, Gabe deserved it, because Gabe started waxing poetic about how much ass he was going to kick at poker on casino night even though he’s never played poker, and poker night isn’t for another four months, so really, what is there to be upset about?

 

“Joe.” Gabe growls, actually growls, and Joe thinks vaguely that would be kind of hot if it weren’t for the fact that he’s growling about all his stuff being glued to his desk, and if Patrick weren’t five feet away smiling into his stack of signed expense reports.

 

“Yes, Gabriel?”

 

“Joe, what did you do to my desk.”

 

Joe raises the most innocent of eyebrows and Patrick snickers.

 

“What makes you think I did anything to your desk.”

 

“Pete!” Gabe shouts, and Pete’s head pokes out the door of his office, eyebrows raised.

 

“Yeah, buddy.”

 

“Joe glued all my stuff to my desk.” Pete blind.

 

“Joe?”

 

“He’s crazy, Pete.” Joe says with finality, and reaches out, plucking the glue remover off Gabe’s desk. “See?” Pete purses his lips, and raises an eyebrow at Gabe.

 

“Gabe? Can you, like, not?” He says, in his bitchiest bitch voice, and Gabe’s face turns beet red, and really, it’s a little cruel for Joe to goad Gabe into getting ridiculed by Pete, because it’s kinda pathetic how in love with him Gabe is, but also, it’s Gabe’s fault for a) calling him in here, and b) being the way he is.

 

Gabe’s mouth opens and closes in disbelief a few times as Pete closes the door to his office again, and Joe grins at Patrick, who grins back.

 

It’s a good day. For completely unrelated reasons. Not because he made Patrick laugh.

 

—

 

Joe knows how to drive standard.

 

Joe has known how to drive standard since he was sixteen. Joe learned to drive on a standard. Joe’s car is a standard transmission Volkswagen.

 

Joe, in fact, drives standard better than Patrick does, which is why pretending he’s bad at it while Patrick teaches him how is a little bit of a struggle.

 

“So just ease your foot up off the clutch at the same moment you’re hitting the gas.” Patrick’s voice is soft, and patient next to him, and every once and a while when Joe stalls (the sound of which is starting to grate on his nerves the same way it did when he was sixteen, but worse) he grabs his arm, and laughs, and it makes it worth it, it makes every second of it worth it.

 

“Sounds like a lot of complex timing, Stump, I’m not sure if I can handle all this responsibility.” A twitch of his foot, and the car stalls, again, and Joe throws his arms up in the air in mock despair. “I’m hopeless.” Patrick’s laugh is like sunshine.

 

“Look, just—“ He reaches over, and puts a hand on Joe’s left knee, pushing his leg down on the clutch, and nods to him. “Start the car.”

 

Joe wants to, he really wants to start the car, but he kind of can’t breathe, and Patrick’s still grinning at him and fuck, shit, damn it.

 

“Handsy.” He manages, and turns the key, and Patrick squeezes his leg.

 

“If that’ll get you to drive.” He grumbles, and it’s a different Patrick from the one he’s used to, there’s nothing nervous, now, about the press of Patrick’s fingers into his thigh, and Joe doesn’t think hard enough to stall, just goes with his gut and accelerates as smooth as you please, and Patrick bites his lip.

 

“See?” He asks, and starts to move his hand away, and Joe can’t stop himself as he grabs it, fingers linking with Patrick’s in one inattentive movement.

 

“I think it was a fluke.” His voice is a little rough, but no less light, and Patrick raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You better keep doing your whole hands-on experience thing.” Patrick looks confused, for the briefest of moments, and Joe feels his stomach start to twist into knots, and then a slow, easy smirk spreads over his face.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’d better.” Patrick murmurs, and slides his hand back over Joe’s thigh, up between his legs, and what, wait, no, this was not what Joe expected, what—

 

“OW!” He jumps, and Patrick throws his head back and cackles. “You pinched me!”

 

“I did.”

 

“You sneak.” He elbows Patrick, hard, in the ribs, and Patrick wheezes around his laughter.

 

“Your face—“

 

“Okay.” Joe announces, and starts the car up yet again, driving out of the college’s parking lot with absolute ease. “Lesson over. Isn’t corporal punishment illegal?”

 

“Oh, please.” Patrick leans back in his seat, and props his feet up on the dashboard. “Is this really, really worse than adhering all of Gabe’s stuff to his desk?” Joe has to admit, he’s got a point there.

 

He drives back to the office with no difficulty, and Patrick claps, quietly, as he pulls into the spot next to his car.

 

“Nicely done, Trohman.” Joe gets out of Patrick’s car, and paces around to the other side, opening his own door, and leaning back against the frame.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’m just an amazing student.” He grins, and Patrick closes his door behind him, and grins back, and they stand there for a minute, just grinning at each other, like a couple of fucking idiots.

 

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Patrick finally says, and ducks his head, and Joe nods.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.” Joe laughs, and Patrick rolls his eyes, and walks around to the drivers side of his car.

 

“Bye.” He says over the roof, and Joe raises his eyebrows, and swings down into his car.

 

“Bye.” He pretends to fuck around with something in his glove box while Patrick drives away, and then sits back in his seat, thunking his head against the back of it.

 

“What are you doing?” Joe startles up out of his seat, and hits the top of his head on the roof of his car before settling back down, staring, bewildered, up at Gabe’s curious face.

 

“Uh. Driving lessons.” He raises his eyebrows, and smiles. “Patrick’s teaching me standard.” It’s a little bit of a leap, to trust Gabe with this, but Joe think it’s safe. Probably. Hopefully.

 

Curiosity gone, Gabe’s eyebrows scrunch together, and Joe doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing.

 

“You drive a standard.” Gabe says, carefully.

 

“Yes.” Joe nods, and pats the gear shift lovingly. “I do.” There’s a moment of silence, where Gabe looks at Joe, and Joe looks at Gabe, and then Gabe points a finger at the open window.

 

“I won’t tell him, but you can never glue my stuff to my desk again. Deal?” Joe exhales, slowly, and nods, again.

 

“Deal.”  

 

—

 

“What are you supposed to be?” Gabe asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow from behind the stupid white sunglasses with the bars across the eyes, perched on the bridge of his nose, and Joe drops the snickers he’d been holding back into the plastic jack-o-lantern by Spencer’s desk.

 

“Three hole punch Joe.” He says, motioning to the three round pieces of paper taped to his shirt. “Cause you can have me both ways. Plain white, or three hole punch.”

 

Spencer laughs, softly, and nods, and Joe looks up to find Patrick giggling into the sleeve of his cardigan in reception, cat ears jiggling where they’re attached precariously to his head.

 

“That’s great.” Andy says smiling wide, with little plastic whiskers sticking off of his cheeks, and Gabe glowers at Joe.

 

“Yeah? What about me?” He demands, and pushes his glasses up, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair so his giant gold dollar sign necklace glints under the florescent light.

 

“Are you…Bieber?” Andy asks, and Gabe rips off the glasses, looking scandalized.

 

“Vanilla Ice.” He hisses, and Andy blinks, shrugs, and goes back to his computer. Gabe rolls his eyes, and waves a hand at Joe. “Oh, big deal. Three round pieces of paper taped to your shirt.” He looks down at the necklace. “This cost fifty bucks.”

 

Joe covers his mouth with his hand and pretends to cough so his laughter doesn’t get out of hand, and Patrick doubles over behind his desk.

 

Gabe sighs, and turns back to his computer, humming the riff to Ice Ice Baby under his breath, and Joe sits down, and doesn’t look up to see if Patrick can hear him.

 

Okay, maybe he does.

 

Whatever.

 

He definitely doesn’t laugh when later that day Andy, Patrick, and Wililam all end up in the kitchenette wearing almost identical cat costumes, and he definitely doesn’t help Patrick sabotage William’s tail at lunch.

 

—

 

“What’s that?” Joe asks, as Pete places a wrapped present under the company’s christmas tree, and Pete blinks.

 

“Secret Santa.”

 

“Who’d you get?” Pete grins.

 

“Can’t tell you that. That’d be breaking the rules.” He walks away, and Joe watches him leave before leaning down, and pulling open the little folded card taped to the top of the box.

 

‘To: Gabe, Love: Secret Santa’

 

He saunters over to Patrick, and leans in close to whisper it into his ear, and Patrick practically bounces up and down in his chair with excitement.

 

When they open presents, Gabe’s is a framed photo of him and Pete playing paintball, grinning with purple and orange splotches over their faces, and when he looks up, eyes wide, and bright, and grinning like an idiot, Pete ducks his head, and doesn’t say anything.

 

Joe would say they’re stupid for not doing anything about being this in love with each other, but then, he got Patrick a fucking teapot, full of little mementos of their years at Dunder Mifflin together, so really, he can’t judge.

 

—

 

It’s 4:50 and Joe feels about ready to table flip his desk onto Gabe’s just to shut him the fuck up about the fucking headphones, already when Frank hops up on the edge of his desk, still wearing his warehouse uniform and yet inexplicably in the upper office, and says;

 

“We’re going to Poor Richard’s after work, you in?”

 

Joe sighs deeply, and leans back in his chair obviously so he’s more comfortable and certainly not so he can see the reception desk better.

 

“Who’s ‘we’?” Frank shrugs.

 

“Me, Andy, Bob, Gabe, William—“

 

“William?”

 

“William, Patrick, Brendon, Spencer, Jon, Dallon--“

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll go.” Frank raises an eyebrow, and turns to look at Patrick, before glancing back at Joe.

 

“Yeah, I figured.” He smirks, and hops off, and he’s bouncing away back toward the annex before Joe can kick his ass.

 

Patrick looks up, and mouths ‘bar?’ and Joe can’t help the grin that spreads over his face as he nods.

 

Patrick’s answering one makes this whole crap day worth it.

 

—

 

“I love my job!” Patrick exclaims, and leans hard on Joe’s shoulder as he half-carries him to his car, arm wrapped around his waist, and Joe is definitely, definitely not thinking about how warm he feels with Patrick pressed against him.

 

“Yeah, well, don’t we all.” He grumbles, and lets Patrick collapse against the side of the car, cracking up into Joe’s jacket.

 

“No, no, no, no, no, Joe, Joefro, Joe Troh, you don’t understand.” Patrick pulls back, suddenly serious, or, as serious as someone can get when they still can’t stop wheezing with laughter. “I love my job. I love making copies and I love you—“ He breaks off, and his eyes go wide, hands coming up to clasp over his mouth as he bursts into another fit of giggles. “Whoops.”

 

Joe’s chest clenches, for a second, and his throat gets tight, really, really tight, as a warmth starts to spread in his stomach, and he shakes his head.

 

“You’re drunk, Stump.”

 

“I love you.” Patrick says, again, through his hands, cheeks pink and snow sticking to his hair. Joe sighs.

 

“Drunk. Blasted. Absolutely shit-faced.” He shakes his head, again, and opens the passengers side door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

“You gonna take me home for a night cap?” Patrick snickers, sliding down into the seat, and Joe slams the door shut with a little more force than might be absolutely necessary.

 

He gets into the drivers seat, and Patrick’s staring at his gear shift.

 

“What?”

 

“Standard.” Patrick says, quizzically, and Joe’s confused for a second before the realization kicks in and his stomach drops out.

 

“Uh—yeah, no, I just bought it.”

 

“But…..it’s the same car.” Patrick’s peering suspiciously at Joe’s feet, where the pedals are, and Joe swallows, thickly, and starts the car.

 

“Y’know, you’re pretty drunk, man, you could be dreaming.”

 

“But…I’m awake.” Patrick has made a full shift from manic to deeply entrenched in confusion, and honestly, if Joe weren’t freaking out a little about the fact that Patrick just told him he loves him, that would be hilarious.

 

“Yeah, but, like, y’know, drunk dreams. Like daydreams but they’re more real and you’re pretty sure they happened, but, y’know, your memory of the night before is so hazy you don’t really remember what happened and then you wake up and it all kinda blends together and you’re not sure what’s real and what isn’t.” He snaps his mouth shut, and Patrick’s silent, for a minute, before another giggle erupts out of him.

 

“You’re so cute when you’re nervous."

 

He drives Patrick home, while Patrick sings Nat King Cole louder than he needs to and refuses to put on his seatbelt, and shoulders him up to his door, having to poke him in the side a few times before he’ll hand over his keys.

 

All in all, he’s had worse nights.

 

Theoretically.

 

—

 

It’s casino night.

 

It’s casino night, meaning, that night, after five-o-clock when they get off work, there will be a casino in the warehouse, a fact that Bob and Frank have been loudly lamenting since they found out, and yet.

 

And yet, here he is, at nine in the morning, staring at Gabe, who has just walked in the door wearing a tux. A full-on black tuxedo complete with ruffles, a bow tie, cufflinks, and a really gorgeous pair of leather wing-tips.

 

Joe leans on the reception desk as he’s hanging up his coat, and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Excuse me,” He asks, waits for Gabe to turn toward him, and the motions between himself and Patrick. “How much for a table for two?” Patrick grins, and ducks his head, and Gabe narrows his eyes.

 

“I would never serve you, ever, even if I worked in a restaurant, which I don’t.” He hisses, and Joe presses his lips tightly together to rein in his laugh. “It’s called class, Joe. Maybe if you tried it you’d look less like a walking, talking trash can.”

 

Patrick makes a little ‘O’ shape with his mouth, and Gabe brushes past him, as Joe hangs his head in mock defeat.

 

“Aw, hey, no worries, Troh.” Pete says as he passes by carrying a bright purple garment of some kind in a plastic bag. “He’ll get it when he sees your suit.” Joe winces, and Patrick’s head whips up.

 

“Is there something…special? About this suit?” He asks, slowly, and Joe scowls at Pete’s back as he makes his way into his office.

 

“Just…that I let Pete…pick it out.” He grits out, and Patrick grins, wildly.

 

“Oh my god.” He clamps his hands down over his mouth. “Oh my god, this is gonna be the best night ever.”

 

Joe turns on his heel, and walks away from reception with pointedly long strides, and Patrick’s giggles follow him all the way back to his seat.

 

He’s not smiling.

 

He’s not.

 

It hasn’t been awkward, exactly, since he drove Patrick home, and Patrick said he loved him. It hasn’t. But it’s been…a little…stilted. Joe will admit that.

 

And that’s him, mostly, really, because Patrick said he loved him and really, how’s a person supposed to react to that?

 

Probably by assuming he was drunk and stupid, but, you now what they say about assuming.

 

Joe actually doesn’t, and never got that phrase, but he’s a little too scared to ask anyone, now.

 

—

 

To clarify, Joe thinks his suit is fabulous.

 

Patrick, on the other hand, literally cannot stop laughing for a good five minutes about the fact that Joe and Pete are wearing matching purple tuxedos.

 

By the time he’s gotten to the point where he can look at Joe without giggling, it’s been half an hour, and Joe’s jacket is hung over the back of a chair, somewhere, forgotten, sleeves rolled up to his elbows because seriously, everything looks better that way, and Patrick’s insisted on undoing his bow tie because “No one should ever, for the rest of eternity, wear a purple bow tie. Ever.”

 

Patrick, for himself, is stunning. He’s in a light grey tux, a far cry from his usual cardigan-and-nice-jeans work combo, which fits perfectly over his shoulders, and he’s the picture of sophisticated grace, hair combed carefully over his head, cufflinks a soft, unabusive silver.

 

But more than that, he looks comfortable, in a way he often doesn’t. In the suit, Patrick looks more at home than he ever does wrapped up in sweaters and t-shirts. He stands up straight, and tall, and his smile is so sure, and so confident, and if Joe could fall any more in love with him, he would, right now.

 

They stare each other down over the poker table, while Brendon sulks about not having won another hand, and Joe watches him bite his bottom lip, and then look at the ceiling before looking back at him, putting his cards down on the edge.

 

“What was that?” He asks, and Patrick huffs.

 

“What was what?” Joe looks up at the ceiling and bites his lip, and Patrick’s laugh makes his stomach fill with warmth. “I have good cards!”

 

“Sure you do, Stump.” Joe grins, and Patrick grins, and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Know what? I’m all in.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Patrick wins, but also, Patrick laughs, and Joe thinks it’s kind of worth losing twenty bucks.

 

—

 

He goes outside after about an hour for a smoke, and Pete’s leaning against his car, or more specifically, Pete’s crouched on the ground next to his car, leaning against the wheel. Joe ignores the screaming in his knees, and goes down with him.

 

“Hey, bud.” He says, and bumps their shoulders, and Pete gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

 

“Hey.”

 

“What’s up?” Pete swallows, hard, and doesn’t even manage a ‘wazzaaap’ which means that something is, in fact, up.

 

“Uh—Gabe—um—kissed me?” He stutters out, and Joe makes a mental note to high-five Gabe the next time he sees him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And was that…good? For you?” Pete bites his lip, and doesn’t grin, but it’s a near thing.

 

“Yeah.” Joe doesn’t try to hide his smile, and elbows Pete, lightly, in the ribs.

 

“So what’s the problem?” Pete’s mouth twists back into a frown, and his eyebrows pull together.

 

“He’s—I’m his boss.”

 

“So?”

 

“So—so I’m his boss, and that’s not—you’re not supposed to—“

 

“Pete.” His voice is softer than usual, but this is important, he can show a moment of for real weakness right now if it means Pete and Gabe stop being stupid. “How long have you been crazy about Gabe?” Pete clenches his jaw.

 

“Um. Five years.”

 

“Right. And how often does this kind of hardcore, super romantic, big, dumb, gay love come around?”

 

“Not…often?”

 

“Right.” Joe’s shoes scrape across the gravel as he pushes himself back up to stand, reaching down for Pete’s hand, and pulling him up with him. Pete goes, and looks at the ground, until Joe pulls him close, wrapping both arms tightly around his waist. “Go get him, man. It’s worth it. This?” He pulls back, and raises his eyebrows, shaking his head. “This kinda thing doesn’t happen every day.”

 

Pete’s grimace slowly morphs into a full-fledged grin, and he nods, before bounding away, probably into the waiting arms of his sasquatchian soulmate.

 

There’s something warm, and excited, coiling in his stomach, something maybe a little new that he really, really likes, as Patrick walks up to him, smiling, his dress shirt fitted perfectly over his chest, and his jacket thrown over his shoulder.

 

“Hey.” He says, and Joe doesn’t move. “Ready to lose some more money?”

 

Joe tilts his head, and his face hurts, a little, from grinning, but he doesn’t stop, because Patrick’s hair is falling over his forehead in clean lines, and his cheeks are a little pink from the cold, and he’s so…perfect.

 

“I love you.” He wants this, and he knows it, and as he shrugs, and meets Patrick’s eyes, that warmth doesn’t subside, not even a little bit. “I love you—a lot, and seeing you is the actual best part of my day, and you’re right, I do drive stick, because I know how to drive stick, but I asked you to teach me, because—“ He laughs, and shakes his head. “Because I wanted to spend more time with you.”

 

The confident feeling starts to fade, and Joe waits, for Patrick to shake his head, or for his smile to go away, or for him to laugh and go as far from Joe as possible, but none of that happens.

 

Patrick just steps closer, still happy, and pleased, and wearing that self-satisfied smirk, rests his hands on Joe’s shoulders, and pushes up on his tiptoes to kiss him.

 

Patrick’s lips are so soft, and so warm, and when Joe’s hands come up to hold him, he can feel the way the muscles in his back are tensing under his hands, and squeezes him, gently, where he’s holding him, thanking every god there is for the perfect way that Patrick fits into his arms, like he belongs there.

 

Patrick’s hands slide up to cup the back of his head, fingers firm, and sure, in a way that Joe almost never sees Patrick act, and his thumb strokes over his hair, soothing as Joe squeezes his eyes shut and wishes this moment could last forever.

 

Patrick pulls back, and Joe chases him, just a little, barely even consciously searching out that feeling again.

 

“You have…no idea.” Patrick rasps, as Joe leans down to rest their foreheads together. “How long I have wanted to do that.”

 

“Some idea” Joe murmurs, and shifts his hands down, as Patrick does the same, coming together between them so Patrick’s fingers can rest, almost delicately, against Joe’s palms.

 

Patrick kisses him again, even softer this time, and Joe feels like he’s flying.

 

“I love you.” He whispers into Joe’s lips, and Joe grins.

 

“Good to know.”

—

 

They go on a Date, like a Date, with a capital ‘D’, for the first time, and Joe realizes three hours beforehand that he literally does not own a suit other than the tux he wore to casino night, and panics, a little. He calls Pete, who, to his credit, immediately leaps into his car and drives over, with Gabe stuffed into his comically tiny Honda like an adult in a bumper car.

 

Pete strides into Joe’s house carrying four garment bags and towing Gabe, who’s got an armful of what look like shoes, and Joe groans both inwardly and outwardly because they’re not even the same size.

 

“Pete. Pete. Peter.”  He shakes his head, and turns around. “I cannot wear this.”

 

“You so can.”

 

“It’s two sizes too small, Pete.”

 

“It makes you look muscular.”

 

“Why did I even call you?”

 

Pete grins, and goes back to his inspection of Joe’s formerly well organized closet.

 

“Maybe if you had any kind of professional work ethic, this wouldn’t happen.”

 

“Fuck off, Gabe.”

  
  


In the end, Joe’s in a somewhat well-fitting blue button up shirt, and the cleanest pair of jeans he owns, standing on Patrick’s doorstep holding what he considers to be a very modest number of roses. He knocks, and ignores the fact that he’s about to puke, and grins when the door opens.

 

“Wow. Roses galore.” Patrick looks incredible, because Patrick always looks incredible, but like, slightly more incredible right now, with the red cardigan and the boots and the jeans so skinny Joe thinks they don’t actually get skinnier, and he’s honestly so floored by how attractive he is that he can’t answer for a second.

 

“Uh--what? Wha--oh. No!” He shakes his head, clearing it, and hands out the bouquet. “Totally reasonable number of roses.” Patrick scoffs.

 

“Yeah, if you’re meeting the queen of England.” Joe flails out a foot, and catches him on the ankle, and Patrick giggles, and sniffs the roses. “They’re really nice, thank you.” He’s blushing, a little, but Joe figures it’s okay, because he’s blushing, too. They stand there, for a minute, just sort of blushing at each other, until Joe remembers that he’s a human being who pilots a body and has to move.

 

“You ready to go?” Patrick grins, and nods, and Joe holds out an arm, which he takes, setting the roses down inside as he’s closing the door.

 

“Woo me, Trohman.”

 

“Just you wait, Stump.”

 

\--

 

When they get back to the office on Monday, it’s to a rousing chorus of “I Was Right, They’re In Love” written and performed by Brendon and Jon, a short interpretive dance routine in which Dallon and Spencer detail the highlights of the lead-up to the two of them getting together, and a pizza lunch sponsored by Pete with “no alcohol allowed” (lots of alcohol, almost all Brendon’s.)

 

“This is like Halloween 2004 all over again.” Patrick mumbles to Joe as they hide behind the reception desk, hoarding a pepperoni pie.

 

“You know, as legend has it,” Joe whispers back, “that on this very site there actually used to be a productive paper company.”  

 

“Whatever happened to it?” Patrick asks, as Gabe wolfs down pizza at an alarmingly fast, and loud, rate, and Dallon restrains Brendon from taking off his pants.

 

“Well, two mid-range workers started dating, and everything fell into anarchy.” Joe replies, and Patrick nods sagely.

 

“Well, we better make sure we don’t end up making the same mistake.”

 

“Right.” Joe grins, and Patrick grins, and William complains about professionality in the workplace, and Joe thinks to himself that maybe there’s a lot of beauty, in ordinary things.

  
Isn’t that kind of the point?


End file.
